Lasso His Heart
by SrslyNo
Summary: After his latest breakup, Wilson asks House if he can sleep on his couch. House wants the do-over to be permanent. Devious House & Clueless Wilson. Hitchcock. Ties. Blow dryers. Birthdays. Who can ask for more? A 1960's Bro-mantic comedy. Enjoy!
1. Love Potion Number 9

**Summary:** Once again Wilson knocks on House's door asking for temporary custody of his favorite couch. Feeling possessive, House wants this do-over to be permanent. How will he make Wilson understand, and send a message to the women of PPTH that it's hands off Prince Charming. A 1960's style bromantic comedy. The story begins on Wednesday night – Wilson seeks asylum from 'Rosalie the Screamer.'

**Characters:** House, Wilson, co-starring Wilson's infamous blow dryer. Macadamia nut pancakes featured in a cameo.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Pre fluff. There is more fluff in the lint trap of my dryer, nevertheless . . .

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Originally written for sick!House and sick!Wilson birthday challenge.

Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, infotriedunture and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 1: Love Potion #9**

It is Wednesday, House is settling in front of the TV for a long evening of mindless entertainment and comfort food – ice cold beer and hot drippy pizza when he hears the customary 5 raps at the door – uh, 1 & and uh, 1, 2, 3, 4.

That could only belong to . . . Wilson? You could almost hear "House, House are you there?" calling out in the rhythm.

Could it be Wilson? He isn't expecting him, not with Wilson still walking around with that schmoopy look on his face all day long. Now that he took up residence with Rosalie the Screamer.

House listens for more taps, but all he hears is silence. It must be Wilson – you can hear the man's anxiety right through the heavy wood door. First, a woodpecker's mating call, followed by silence, and then Wilson's sonorous cooing. House's Animal Planet program halts in mid-fantasy as an unexpected and impatient screech saws through the door. "House!! Come on, open up!"

The frosty bottle almost slips through House's fingers as Wilson's forceful demand pierces his eardrums.

Getting up with a grunt, the doctor stumps his way to the door, and opens it wide to find the stressed doctor standing next to a suitcase with his bandaged left hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He quickly drops his hand to his side, but not before House detects a wince of pain. Wilson scowls, "We had a fight".

"No, seriously?" House invokes their safe word. It is only used when there is a need for complete honesty between the two, or if brakes need to be applied before their friendship is crushed under the wheels of their never ending arguing and snark.

"Seriously? Yes. She threw me out. Can I stay for a few days?"

House controls his joy. He has waited years to hear any variation on those very words from Wilson. Surely, if House believes in a Higher Power, he might admit his non-prayers are answered.

He opens the door wide, and tilts his head toward his couch. "Mi sofa es su sofa, but not the pizza unless your dinero is my dinero."

"I thought you were fluent in Spanish."

"I am, but you're not."

Both of Wilson's hands shoot up in supplication, "Fine, fine I know the drill. Food is on me while I'm here, or until I stop breathing - whichever comes last." Another twinge of pain reflects in his dark eyes as he fails to discreetly drop his left hand into his slack's pocket. The bandage catches on the opening.

"Yeah, well there are irrevocable trusts too, you know. Be prepared to support my habits beyond the grave."

The edge creeps back into Wilson's voice as he moves to the fridge, grabs a beer, turns and bows towards House, "Right, I'll be sure to be buried with my checkbook and a case of vicodin, and hang a sign over my grave, printed in Spanish, Japanese or whatever language you like, that says 'Break open in case of emergency.'"

"That's all I'm sayin'."

House waits until the pizza, beer and television numb Wilson before beginning his first round of questions.

"So, what happened? You slugged Rosalie with your left-hook because she decided to get a sex change operation for your birthday? I suggested to her that you would like it, since you enjoy hanging out with the tranny nurse."

"House! . . . That is . . . so wrong!" A pause and a questioning look. "You actually know when my birthday is? You never acknowledged it before."

"I don't make a practice of it, but it doesn't mean I don't know when it is. Got to mark the boy wonder oncologist's passage from boy to MAOI, Middle Age Oncologist with Incontinence."

"Only when you place a pot of warm water under my hand."

"Never mind me, did Rosalie tattoo her initials on your ass and buy you a gift certificate to be gelded at Cowboy Bob's Large Animal Veterinary off the interstate? You seem to like that in your women. Or, just skip to the good part, and spill when she started screaming."

"Shut up, House."

"She screamed, didn't she?!"

" . . . "

"You told me the sound editor's union voted her the best screamer for three years in a row."

A long sigh trembles through Wilson's body as he tosses his greasy plate on top of the pizza box. "I was making my bubbe's bubbe's matzoh ball soup."

House feels his knees go weak when he hears 'matzoh ball soup.' A recipe handed down from Wilson's maternal grandmother's line from generation to generation. Tender chunks of chicken cohabiting with vegetables and two types of dumplings – fluffy and heavy. The first time Wilson gave House a steamy aromatic bowl, he did his Groucho Marx impersonation with his eyebrows and invisible cigar shaking up and down, "If you don't love the one on top, you will love the one on the bottom." House loved them both. Ambrosia from the Gods with a heartburn kick that could release enough heat to warm all the Eastern Seaboard clear through the dead of winter. Simply, 'Love in a bowl.'

A feeling very much like jealousy flashes through House's core. Wilson was creating his love potion for Rosalie the Screamer. One taste of the golden liquid and she would be under his spell. Snow White's poison apple doesn't have half the kick as that magical broth. And, she so didn't deserve it.

Wilson's choice of girlfriends went from bad to worse in the last couple of years. He lacked the ability to distinguish brash from bold, foolhardy from courageous, or stupid from smart. House frowns. After Amber, Wilson lost any sense of judgment regarding women. He bypassed the needy, and House-like surrogates and went straight for the sociopaths. Rosalie the Screamer headed the list.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he continues listening to Wilson's story: "I thought she would like a traditional Passover Seder, and was making matzoh ball soup when she came into the kitchen . . . and . . . screamed! She startled me, and I didn't realize at first that I spilled blazing hot soup over my hand. Before I had a chance to put ice on it, she told me she sublet her apartment over a month ago, needed me to pack and leave at once. She's moving to Los Angeles to get better horror movie opportunities, and said we were through. Just like that." Wilson tries to snap his fingers with his left hand, forgetting about the burn, and grimaces in pain.

"She began screaming again and wouldn't let up. I tried to find out what was wrong with our relationship . . . (House silently smirks, _Uh-oh . . . Probing Wilson – strike one!),_ I controlled my temper when she said I was never around, and reminded her that I kept doctor's hours (_Superhero Pose – Strike two!_), and then I lost it and told her she could take charm lessons from you." (_Blazing Brown Eyes, and Pinched Lips . . . And You're OUT!_)

"But, she never tasted your soup?"

"Wha . . ? No."

"Why Jimmy, you behaved like the caring concerned person (_usual supercilious dumb-ass bastard_) you always are. Now, let me look at your hand."

HWHWHWHWH

Wilson's repeated assurance of "I'm fine" evaporates under the diagnostician's determination to investigate the swollen red skin under the gauze. House curses himself and his curiosity for wanting to get the details about the breakup before checking on his friend's health. He drags his reluctant buddy into the glaring white light of the bathroom to further inspect the injury.

The back of the hand is capped with a large wicked-looking blister, and two smaller ones straddle the lines across the palm. "Second degree burns. Can you flex your fingers?"

A tentative wiggle is followed up by a grunt from Wilson.

"Do you want a vicodin?"

"No"

"Do you want me to kiss your booboo and make it all better?"

"Uh, NO!!"

"Extra strength Tylenol?"

"Yes."

"It's in the medicine cabinet."

Sighing, Wilson opens the mirrored door over the sink, removes the bottle off the shelf, and fiddles with the childproof cap. Snatching the bottle away, House pushes and twists the cap, shaking out two pills into Wilson's waiting hand. "Still too much of a girl to dry swallow? Go get some water and take the pills before I replace the dressing."

Either the man is in a lot of pain, or The Screamer drained all the fight out of him, because House did not hear a peep out of him as Wilson trudges to the kitchen. He should feel bad for his friend except Wilson's misery fuels his own happiness. His drug supplier, personal chef, and conscience are back under his roof. He could do without the last one, but it is worth the trade-off. Rosalie was an idiot.

Upon Wilson's return, House gently cleans and applies antiseptic salve to the angry red flesh. By the time he finishes re-wrapping the hand, the spider web of fine lines begin to soften around the liquid brown eyes.

Looking at his workmanship, House stretches, clutches his cane, and with a backward glance, looks at Wilson admiring the fresh bandage as if it is a sculptural masterpiece. "Well, at least Rosalie the Screamer left you with one unscalded hand. Too bad it's your right instead of your left, so don't stay up too late perfecting your technique on little Wilson. You're going to have to get up extra early if you plan to dress and blow dry your precious head of hair with one hand."

"Up yours, House."

"Same to you, Wilson"

TBC


	2. North by Northwest

Summary: Thursday – The Panty Peeler suggests a bet

**Summary:** Thursday – The Panty Peeler suggests a bet. A 1960's style bromantic comedy.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Pre fluff. There is more fluff in the lint trap of my dryer, nevertheless . . .

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, infotriedunture and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 2: North by Northwest**

WHI!I!I!INE!

Lifting one eyelid to check the time, House groans, 5:30 AM. _If it's dark, does it really count as Thursday morning?_

_Holy crap! That obsessive early bird must be up to his eyebrows in worms._

Mumbling into his pillow, "Hope he suffocates. Serves him right."

WHII!!N!E!

_Oh, God! Wilson's blow dryer is a force of nature. What are the speeds on that thing – Mach One and Hurricane Jimmy?_

Resisting the urge to get out of bed and rip the cord out of the wall socket, he covers his head with a pillow, fantasizing about sending a letter to Gitmo offering to sell Wilson's dryer for torturing prisoners in lieu of water boarding

The next time House wakes up, it is to the fragrance of sea breeze scented soap and hair products with the palpable angst of Wilson emanating from the bathroom. Shoe scuffling and muttered curses carry to House's ears every few minutes, stretching into infinity.

He returns the pillow back to his face, but can't take it anymore. He grabs for the vicodin, dry swallows, and limps to the bathroom to see what is rocking Wilson's world.

It's Wilson's tie. With his dominant left hand effectively out of commission, he is unable to grip the fabric and make any headway on the knot. The fringe on his forehead is sticking against his brow.

"Dude! Time's up! You need to give up the neckware until your hand heals." House tries to keep a serious face as his eyes train in on the top of Wilson's head. The hair is fluffed up and standing straight out from his scalp. "Maybe it's time to rethink the hair."

Right hand firmly on hip, and lips pressed tightly together belie the soft voice issuing from clinched teeth, "And what would you suggest?"

"Look up Don King's photo in Wikipedia."

With a huff of disgust Wilson slips off the emblem of his defeat and stuffs it into the pocket of his slacks.

He presses the pump of the styling foam, and lets creamy clumps plop onto the edge of the sink. His right hand scoops the product up, and begins taming the hellish mop by Indian wrestling his hair into a semblance of civility.

House is entertained by Wilson's ingenuity. He follows close behind as Wilson grabs the acetaminophen, and heads for the kitchen.

"Need me to open that for you?"

"Thanks for all your help, Mother Teresa, but I can do it myself." With dark eyes glaring, Wilson rummages through a drawer, slaps a rubber jar opener on the counter, turns the bottle upside-down, presses and twists. Voila. Wilson holds up the open container for House to see.

"It didn't take you any time at all to come up with a solution for opening that bottle. Interesting how motivating pain can be, isn't it, Wilson?"

Right hand pointing at the unshaven face, "Oh, don't worry that thinning head of hair of yours, House. I can take care of myself, and I'll be coming to your office with my necktie properly tied around my neck by lunchtime, plus a phone number in my pocket from the nurse who ties it around my neck. Care to make a bet?"

Hearing no response, Wilson swipes his keys from the counter, and with an infuriating smile, walks out the door.

HWHWHWHWH

Impending doom settles upon House's shoulders as he hastily dresses for work. Without The Screamer in the picture, the notorious panty peeler is back at large, and his weapon of choice is going to be that damned ugly tie. Like rubber neckers at an accident, he is determined to watch Wilson in action.

HWHWHWHWH

Few distractions plague House's morning as he stands vigil at his conference room window, paying little attention to how Foreman and his new fellows are executing his latest orders regarding the torture of their latest patient.

House is tracking Wilson like a heat-seeking missile. Every time a tall dark haired man in a lab coat walks by, House is fingering the vertical slats to see if it is Wilson. Just as he confirms a sighting of tie-less Wilson walking past, assorted rhythmic high pitched tones blast from five beepers. "Well, what are you waiting for People? This time it's lupus. Let's get on it!" The new ducklings run to the elevator bay with Foreman right behind, and House tacks in the opposite direction to the nurse's station.

Good as his word, there is Wilson smiling and chatting up the nurses.

House hangs back, secreting himself behind a lush philodendron. The vestige of Wilson's freshman drama class days and passion for sweeping arm and hand gestures stand House in good stead as he watches the pantomime enfold.

Lots of smiling and nodding. One of the nurses points to Wilson's manly but tie-less shirtfront. Wilson smiles shyly, chuckles, and starts moving his wounded hand gently over his hair in embarrassment and finishes up touching his naked shirt decrying his unacceptable dress. The target's lips form a moue of dismay, and two more potential casualties rush over. Sympathetic expressions fawn over the wrapped hand as if it is an injured dove, and the self-effacing doctor pats his lab coat pocket as he goes in for the kill. Hands clasp bosoms, as poor Wilson pulls his limp dick of a tie from its hiding place in the pocket. All three women extend their arms in varying pleas, begging to be the one who restores the tie to its customary and prominent position of honor. Wilson's hand goes up as if he would be asking too much of a favor, but then widens his brown puppy dog eyes in thanks and zeros in on the buxom blonde at the desk. Making little twirly hand signals he walks her through the convoluted art of knotting his tie. House stays glued to the spot until the necktie is restored to its native habitat, and a slip of paper surreptitiously changes hands.

Only then does House walk away nodding in disgust while dry-swallowing a couple of vicodin.

HWHWHWHWH

Of course, his patient doesn't have lupus, but symptoms run amuck until she stabilizes by early evening. Taking two more pills for the road, House finally heads home.

Wilson, relaxed after overcoming this morning's challenges is already snuggled into the sofa and watching a DVD when House arrives.

"'North by Northwest!' No f-king way!"

Stopping the movie for a moment, and waving a scrap of paper between his fingers, Wilson crows, "Yes f-king way. I decided the winner of this morning's bet gets to choose this evening's entertainment. What could be better?"

"Maybe a bullet to the neck. Tell me. How many times can you watch the same damn movie over and over?"

Wilson drops the paper into an empty beer mug on the coffee table, and then nonchalantly pulls two more out and plunks those in the glass as if to keep the first one company. He shrugs his shoulders. "I like 'North by Northwest.' Count yourself lucky that I started it before you got home, and sprang for dinner while I was at it."

Rising from the couch, Wilson walks into the kitchen where an array of Chinese take-out cartons sprawl over the countertop. He begins walking the items to the coffee table, and returns one more time to the kitchen with ice-cold bottles of brew for House and himself before he sits down.

Somewhat mollified House finds his place on the couch and tips the boxes towards him checking Wilson's selections. Perhaps, he can make the food last until the less-talk-more-action chase around Mt Rushmore, or at least until the crop-duster tries decapitating Cary Grant.

They eat in silence, until the caustic doctor can't take anymore.

"What is it that you like so damn much about this movie? Is it Eva Marie Saint, Cary Grant, or the impervious suit he wears through most of the movie?"

Wilson's eyes never leave the screen, but a deep blush travels up his neck and warms his cheeks.

"It's Cary Grant isn't it?" House flashes a quick look at the oncologist's crotch to confirm his diagnosis, but a container of egg rolls blocks the view.

An awkward silence hovers between the two of them before Wilson clears his throat to reply, "You know, there could be worse role models than Cary Grant. I admire how he wears his clothes, and the understated elegance - though I can't figure out how adapt his style to mine"

Wilson continues without taking his eyes off the frozen screen in front of him, "My mother saw Cary Grant when he was in his 80's going around the country doing a lecture tour. She said he charmed the pants off every woman in the auditorium. The Original Panty Peeler.

"As opposed to you who peels them off every woman, one at a time."

"As opposed to you who . . . Let's just leave it at that. As opposed to you."

House ignores Wilson's last remark, and snaps back "But, he beat your marriage record by two additional wives, and at one time set up housekeeping with Randolph Scott."

"How come you know so much about Cary Grant?"

" . . ."

Both men sit in silence not liking the turn the evening is taking.

There were no more confrontations, ministrations, or snark right up until House takes his cane and eases back to his bedroom, and Wilson stretches out on the familiar sofa. Sleep doesn't overtake either man until the early morning hours as each ponders where he stands in the other's orbit. In their own way, each doctor attacks, sifts, decodes and reviews all the evidence presented in the last 48 hours, but comes up with nothing conclusive.

They both fall asleep with conflicting emotions and the same words on their lips, "Perhaps, tomorrow . . . "

TBC


	3. One Man's Trash

**Summary:** Friday – House hatches a plan. A 1960's style bromantic comedy.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Pre fluff. There is more fluff in the lint trap of my dryer, nevertheless . .** .**

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, infotriedunture and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 3: One Man's Trash**

WH!! – WH! – WHi - iiiiine!

_Gah! Is it possible that Wilson cranked that thing up a notch?_ House was sure he could hear all the dogs in the neighborhood barking and baying at the shrill twine vibrating out through the walls of his apartment.

His thigh is aching in unison to the wail of the blow dryer, and would have been in a foul mood except for the epiphany that came to him as he awoke this morning. He massages his thigh and dry-swallows a couple of pills from his ever-present vial, and as soon as he can stand, grabs his cane and hobbles over to his computer.

Apparently, Wilson is still pulling himself together from the dregs of last night, and with barely a wave, steals out of the apartment leaving House all alone to implement his scheme.

After ninety minutes on the computer (feels like 20), House is satisfied with what he accomplished and looks forward to tomorrow's delivery. He concludes his Google search by printing out instructions, and slips the sheets upside-down into his desk drawer. His purchase costs a bundle, but if everything goes as planned, it will be well worth it.

Before going to work, there are a few more additional preparations.

Rummaging through Wilson's suitcase he feels slippery cold coils winding around his fingers. Wilson's ties. His eyes flinch as he removes the inanimate octopus from its shelter. House shakes his head in dismay. Never were so many silkworms sacrificed for so little. He looks over the stash. Is it the boring color schemes or frighteningly rigid patterns that seduce Wilson? Stripes vie for attention among checkerboards, polka-dots and imploded snowflakes. House stares warily, the patterns look like the interior of a smashed kaleidoscope.

As he makes his way down the hall to the front door, Wilson's polka-dot green tie flaps into sight, and then another, and then . . . He drops the pile onto the sofa and inspects the mass of malignancy. _There are four! Four of the same damn green tie!_

_Buying four identical ties either means Wilson is losing his memory, or he loves the tie so much he wants to keep a replacement on hand if ever it gets a spot._

Catching the bundle up in his arms he heads for the front door once again, but a delicious idea springs to mind. He rescues the four matching ties from their doomed brethren, and goes off to his bedroom, inspecting the headboard and bed frame that supports the mattress. Nodding in satisfaction, and chuckling to himself he drops the ties into the bottom nightstand drawer where he stores the lube. _Behold my hope chest, Wilson!_

The doctor hums a bar room ballad as he hobbles back down the hall. He makes a stop at the bathroom, snatching the offending banshee propped on the counter, and slips the pistol-like snout into his front pocket. Without stopping he continues to the couch and grips the beachball of tangled silk patchwork, picking up speed as he heads out the front door. A few quick uneven steps and he throws open the small fitted iron door, shoving the-worst-of-Wilson down a garbage chute, and slams it shut. Is it just his imagination or did he hear a whine of pain echo up from the basement?

HWHWHWHWH

Friday at the hospital is very much like yesterday. He orders more holes to be drilled into his patient until she either dies or reveals an interesting secret that will save her life.

He can wait. He has all the time in the world. Too bad she doesn't.

Electric blue eyes spy Wilson this time at the nurse's orthopedics desk, running through his my-hand-is-so-injured-I-can't-tie-my-tie routine. The nurses are lining up to take direction from the oncologist. House is about to slip away, when Wilson catches his eye, and discreetly holds up five pieces of paper fanned out like a winning poker hand, and gloats with delight. The message written all over his conceited face is "Panty Peeler Extraordinaire."

House suppresses his urge to kiss the twisted smile off Wilson's face. instead he heads to the clinic where he and the infamous "PPE" are scheduled for the rest of the afternoon.

Most days, he would seek the oncologist out, and they would watch his favorite soap, but today he wants peace and quiet until it's time to leave. He stops at the waiting room, eyeing the crowd with a benevolent grin, "You're in luck today, People. PPTH is offering a green program along with your diagnosis - free euthanasia with the treatment of your ailment. Less overpopulation in New Jersey- more job opportunities for Canadians. If you're interested, tell Nurse Brenda you want to see Dr. Cripple. If not, ask for Dr. Wilson."

HWHWHWHWHWH

By the time the doctors arrive home, and wash down the leftover Chinese take-out with beer, House and Wilson are more than half-way to forgetting the events from earlier in the day.

Reducing the risk of Wilson asking to watch "Vertigo" for the infinity-squared time, and a sop to tomorrow's expected fall-out over the missing blow-dryer, House makes a pre-emptive strike and loads "To Catch a Thief" into the DVD player.

The image of a cat burgler skirting across roof tiles is not piercing the diagnostician's vicodin induced haze. Of more interest is the beer mug on the coffee table overflowing with slips of white and colored paper. The collection appears to be growing every time he turns around and looks at it. _What the hell. Let Wilson have some fun before we start playing by my rules._

Peace, harmony and contentment reign supreme until Saturday morning . . .

TBC


	4. Another Man's Treasure

**Summary:** Saturday – 'House-keeping' according to Wilson. A 1960's style bromantic comedy.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Pre fluff. There is more fluff in the lint trap of my dryer, nevertheless . . .

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**Notes:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, infotriedunture and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 4: Another Man's Treasure**

On Saturday House is the first to wake up. He rattles around the kitchen, starting the brewing cycle on the coffee maker until a mellow and sleepy Wilson shuffles in and joins him. Seeing a bowl of flour, milk and macadamia nuts on the counter, Wilson switches to autopilot and manages to prepare the petite pancakes with one hand metaphorically tied behind his back.

After they both finish the 'little slices of heaven' in the living room, Wilson picks up both plates and heads to the kitchen. As House buries himself in the newspaper, he makes out the faint rattle of china and silverware settling into the sink. He writes on the imaginary whiteboard in his mind to ask Wilson to pick up a few packs of paper plates and plastic utensils the next time the guy offers to go shopping.

Passing from kitchen to hall, the dark haired doctor hints to the raised newspaper, "Um, I'm going to get washed up now. The dirty dishes are waiting in the sink for you." The dark hair recedes down the hall.

Silence.

The thunder and spurt of the shower fades into white noise.

The soft crinkle of a page turns.

Assorted clicks and clanks of plastic bottles, and the tangy scent of shaving cream fills the apartment.

Another page folds back on itself.

Making a mind bet with himself, House decides Wilson ought to be launching his diatribe just about n- . . . "House! Hooouse!! My blow dryer is missing!"

Bare feet pounding on hardwood thump back towards the living room.

Wrapped only in a towel, "What have you done with my dryer?!"

"Why do you think I'm responsible for your blow dryer? Maybe it got lonely for its mother and went to appliance hell."

"You have no right! I liked that blow dryer! It belonged to Julie."

"Julie? And, your point is? . . .

. . . Of course I have a right! The continuing noise pollution will cause me to lose my hearing and my lease. It's a dinosaur Wilson. The Ford Pinto of home appliances. You'll be happy to know I received a postcard, and it's much happier now that it's living amongst Godzilla microwaves and portable brick telephones."

Out came the index finger, "First of all you don't have a lease, you own . . . "

"Give it up, Wilson. Chalk it up to another failed relationship. You should really thank me, it's so old the thermostat is probably shot and it's burning those prized hair follicles right off the top of your head. Time to go out and buy a new, improved, QUIETER one."

Wilson heads back to the bathroom, but not without muttering loud enough for House to overhear, "Yeah, and where do I go to trade you in for a new, improved, quieter model of a friend."

House replaces the headline news with the entertainment section. He is halfway through, when grumpy and groomed Wilson returns. House looks up over the safety of his newspaper. He could swear Wilson's hair looks the same as yesterday, except, _oh yeah, not puffy._

"I'm going out." Turning his head, brown eyes squint towards the sink, peering into the darkness of the kitchen. A monument of porcelain, Teflon and stainless steel rises from the basin. The voice is pitched soft but high, "You haven't the slightest intention of cleaning up after I cook do you? Even though I am not supposed to get my hand wet" the last coming out in a hiss.

House can see the superhero pose through his newspaper.

Stiffening his back, the oncologist turns toward the kitchen, "Fine, fine. Hell just called, it appears my blow dryer is still lonely." Sounds of china and metal colliding together and the soft thunder of an abused paper bag rumble from the vicinity of the kitchen. Wilson returns to the living room with a bloated supermarket bag under one arm, and without as much as a second look, calls out, "Kitchen. Clean. Now." And, heads out the door slamming it behind him.

Even through the closed door, House can hear porcelain, glass and pot metal clang down the gullet of the garbage chute, punctuated by another forceful crash of the heavy iron door. House shrugs in approval and returns his attention to "Garfield".

_Well, that went off without a hitch._

HWHWHWHWH

Timing is still in his favor when the express package arrives from "Another Man's Treasure." Tearing open the box, he finds the contents to be in perfect order as the store manager claimed.

Turning toward his desk, he removes the instructions he printed off the Internet. He then limps to his closet and searches through the flotsam, discovering an old worn jigsaw puzzle box probably from the Stacy years, and dumps the contents.

Then, as if medical habits are too hard to break, he stumps to the bathroom to thoroughly wash his hands before touching the delicate inventory that just arrived. Returning, he scrutinizes the instructions and performs a stylized variation of a surgical knot on the first item. When it meets his approval he continues with the others, and when all are contorted into identical poses, he gently nestles them into the container that once boasted 5000 pieces. Now it possesses only seven. Closing the lid, he considers gift-wrap for a nanosecond, but discards the thought in half the time. Wilson will have to settle for his birthday present just as it is. He hides the colorful box on the top closet shelf in plain sight.

The diagnostician raises his hands over his head in a gesture of Olympic victory. _For all my efforts today, I proclaim that tonight I am the king of the remote!_

HWHWHWHWH

Wilson returns with a bag of groceries, and a glossy box under his arm with the words 'New! Improved! Quiet! Model V8800 with Ionizer!' emblazoned across every side. He huffs and shakes his head in amazement. House is still entrenched on the couch reading the newspaper. The sports section. Determined not to let the grouch have the last say, he smiles, raises his bandaged hand, aims another folded note into the beer mug on the coffee table, and heads to the bathroom, "Dropped by the hospital while I was out and got a fresh dressing."

wha – waa – awaaaaaaaa . . .

Blue eyes crinkle at the muted sounds drifting from the bathroom as Wilson takes his new best friend for a test drive. The eyes then dart to the nearly overflowing mug. His hands reach and unfold the latest addition to Wilson's growing collection of phone numbers.

The name, Celia and two phone numbers are written in flowery script. One phone number is marked 'cell.'

_Holy crap! It's the tranny nurse._

TBC

**A/N:** Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for the next chapter. It's Wilson's special day! Find out what House bought for Wilson.


	5. South by Southeast

**Summary:** Sunday – Cross words, crosswords, and birthday surprises. A 1960's style bromantic comedy.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Fluff.

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, infotriedunture and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 5: South by Southeast**

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the fragrance of sautéed onions assail House's senses as he checks what Wilson is up to in the kitchen.

Apparently, an evening watching the "L Word" and "Monster Truck" videos could still be relied upon to pacify Wilson. Not everything had to be Hitchcock all the time.

"Made something different for breakfast."

"Different?!"

"Yes, you know the last time I checked the word 'different' didn't have an NC-17 rating."

"That's because you mix up NC-17 with PG13."

Busy, Wilson ignores House's weak jab at sarcasm as he inexpertly tilts a small frying pan with his right hand coaxing a half-moon of puffed egg onto a waiting plate. Wilson curses softly as the egg splits in two, and hot cheese and vegetables bubble out of the crevice. He then spoons red sauce, sour cream and guacamole over the top of the omelet, and offers the hodgepodge to House.

"Red and green foods are for Christmas."

"Shut up and try it."

One small bite is followed by a larger gobble. Nearly half the Spanish omelet is missing from the plate. "mksmmrwiluratit"

"I'm sorry House, you're saying?"

"Makesomemorewhileyouareatit."

"I – I'm having trouble hearing you. Speak up."

"Oh, Damn-it-to-hell, Wilson. More! Make! More!"

Barely keeping a straight face Wilson takes the fork and plate from the demanding man, and sets the food and steaming mug of coffee on the table beside the couch, gesturing to the food the way Vanna White points to a letter, "Yes Master. Finish this first".

Following the keeper of his stomach with his plate of food, House grabs the dish as he falls back onto the couch grumbling, "Master, my ass." _I wish_.

Clean up goes faster than yesterday. Wilson loads a bag with dirty bowls and spoons as he cooks. After breakfast, he sweeps everything left on the counter into another bag and takes it out to the garbage. House lets it all slide until he catches the cool and appraising look Wilson gives his coffee maker. The scruffy doctor rescues the machine from Wilson's clutches by administering CPR – Cleans Pot & Rotates filter.

He hasn't seen his iPod since yesterday afternoon.

House begins to cave, "We should invest in paper plates, plastic forks and knives."

Tight lipped silence.

"Here's 20. Knock yourself out and buy the fancy plates with pictures of large-eyed kittens and frolicking puppies."

The bill disappears into Wilson's pocket.

HWHWHWHWH

After breakfast Wilson steps out to pick up the "New York Sunday Times," and the two share the paper, swapping sections.

A skirmish ensues when each doctor grabs the Sunday crossword puzzle.

"I bought the newspaper!"

"If you want the crossword then you should purchase two papers."

"Why should I buy two papers? Go out and buy your own!"

"Cripple here. Letting you stay in my home!"

"Most limping twerps don't make guests clean, cook and run errands."

" . . . "

" . . . "

"Okay. It's the 21st century Wilson. We can beat King Solomon at his own game."

"We're going to cut the crossword in half?"

"Copy the puzzle, you idiot. Use the copy function on my printer."

The next hour passes in dead silence as each man pretends indifference while fiercely rushing to finish the crossword before the other.

They finish in a dead heat - it's a tie.

HWHWHWHWH

Wilson drifts asleep in the rosy glow of the late afternoon sun, until House nudges the doctor's foot with his cane.

"Wha?"

"Wakey Wakey, Wilson"

Wilson eyes House. He is dressed in dark slacks and sport jacket. The black shirt looks . . . pressed.

"Get dressed. We are going out to dinner for your birthday!"

"You're paying?"

"Of course! I have a gift certificate to the 'China Palace.' Cost isn't a consideration."

"You, bought it with my MasterCard, didn't you."

"It's . . . Priceless!"

"Priceless to you, costly to me. Give me 15 minutes."

"No time for sex, Wilson. Take 10."

HWHWHWHWH

Returning to the apartment in a state of sluggish contentment after stuffing themselves on exotic Chinese delicacies and beer, the two doctors are in a mellow mood, enjoying each other's company without any verbal attacks peppering their conversation.

Wilson heads for his customary end of the couch and settles in when House pitches the old jigsaw box into his lap.

"Kind of late now to start uh, jigsaw puzzles, House?"

"Needed a box for your birthday gift. Open it."

"Really, you never gave me presents before." Wilson rubs the back of his neck, "Are there any credit lines left on my cards?"

"This one is entirely on me"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!"

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Wilson lifts the lid and tosses it aside.

Cradled in tissue, the oncologist discovers a slim solid silk, light blue tie. It is pre-knotted with the narrow end of the tie slipping through the knot, and a lasso-like opening for the head to come through. All the wearer needs to do is pull the knot up to the neck while holding down the tail.

House watches as Wilson reverently fingers the soft fabric with the back of his finger, and respectfully lifts each tie from its nest, carefully arranging the neckties on one end of the coffee table. The colors blend harmoniously together: Navy, royal blue, pale blue, pearl gray, yellow, taupe and bronze. His face and eyes are solemn as he looks into the attentive blue ones. "House, these are beautiful."

"Those are vintage ties from the '50's. The type Cary Grant wore in North by Northwest."

As Wilson continues to stare intently at his face, House continues, but his voice sounds unusually husky, even to his own ears. "Thought with your injured hand you would be able to handle these ties by yourself."

House holds out the bronze one to Wilson. "Here, see if it works."

Without saying a word, and barely taking his eyes off House, Wilson slips the tie over his head, and with some trial and error pushes the knot nearly up to his collar. As if his own hands didn't belong to him, House's fingers shoo Wilson's away, and tightens the knot with a couple of expert tugs.

Clearing his throat, "I used the Windsor knot, because the Internet said it was classic." Pointing to the depression right under the knot, "I thought the dimple complements the one on your left cheek." And without forethought, his hand touches Wilson's forehead and his index finger traces down his nose, slides over the left cheek and pauses in the crease to the side of his mouth. "South by Southeast. Cary Grant's dimple is on his chin."

The two men's faces nearly touch as their eyes hold through several heartbeats, neither one moving. Each man is sending questions but not hearing the answers. Messages in a language neither one of them speaks. Eventually, one lets out a long breath, and the other remembers to breathe. The spell is broken.

Wilson breaks eye contact first and begins returning the ties back into the box. "Thank you, House," and with a lopsided grin, "I'm - it – it's just what the doctor ordered. I'll wear one tomorrow."

House leverages himself off the couch with his cane, and heads back to his bedroom. "If you want to wear a tie, you have no choice but to wear one of mine"

Still groggy from the food and beer, not deciphering what his friend is saying, he watches with slightly crossed eyes as House stumps down the hallway, "Huh?"

"Never mind. Night, Wilson"

"Night, House

TBC

**A/N:** How will the birthday gift affect House and Wilson's friendship? Will it tie them closer together, or twist each man into knots? Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter.


	6. Clothes Makes the Man

**Summary:** Monday – Wilson's shows House's gift to the PPTH staff. A 1960's style bromantic comedy.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Fluff.

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas triedunture

and infobookfan85 deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 6: Clothes Make the Man**

Wha – Waa – AwaaAwaAWAAAA . . . /silence

House is dreaming. A six-foot tall cocker spaniel with a shiny golden brown tongue hanging out of its mouth pants over him . . . His eyes snap open directly in front of Wilson's clothed crotch. Wilson, looking stressed, is towering above him with hia tie around his neck askew. _Get rid of the clothes, and the view wouldn't be half-bad._

Without moving from his position in bed, he cocks an inquiring eyebrow toward the frustrated oncologist.

"I don't want to be late for work, but can't get the knot right. Can you do it?"

With a grimace, House reaches for the vial on his nightstand and downs his medicinal aperitif. He notes Wilson chose the bronze tie to go with his navy suit and blue shirt. "Are you color blind?"

A blush suffuses pale skin, "N-No but it does run in the family. My uncle failed his driver's test because he couldn't tell the difference between red and green light signals."

"And, has ADD. He couldn't learn the light signal sequence either. Lucky for you, blood only comes in one color. Take this one off, and bring me the yellow. You do recognize ye . . . ?"

"Drop it, House." Deflecting, "Didn't you have a patient with green blood?" Wilson's walks away, but returns with the yellow one in tow, and hands it to the blue-eyed man without saying anything.

House loosens the knot on the dark colored tie, "Green blood is a diagnostic department specialty, you're safe in oncology. Don't move, or all the love you heaped on your hair this morning will go to waste." He arranges the sunbeam of yellow on Wilson's chest and tightens it up so it fits snugly next to the collar. Wilson is calm now and time seems to slow as House fits the tie in place. He wants to linger on the freshly starched shirt, and breathe in the soapy goodness of Wilson, but . . .

With a smart rap on the blue clad shoulders, his hand brushes down the cool softness of the tie. "Knock 'em dead tiger." As if mimicking House, Wilson's own hand strokes the length of the tie, giving it a couple of gentle pats when he reaches the end.

"I prefer both my patients and nurses alive, thank you. See you at the hospital." With his jacket over his shoulder, Wilson is out the door.

HWHWHWHWH

This morning House can't get to work early enough. He wants a front row seat to see the staff's reaction to Wilson's birthday present. With Wilson's penchant for ordering a soy-double-latte-hold-the-foam before arriving at the hospital, and a predilection for driving like an old-man-with-a-hat, he parks his bike in his reserved space only a few minutes after Dr. Pygmalion.

His wish isn't granted until the afternoon.

The newbies keep bringing conflicting results from the lab that don't gel with the original tests, and House must confront his patient directly. After threatening a cruel and painful death, the patient confesses that she hates going to doctors, and coerced her twin sister into taking the first panel of tests for her.

When he returns to his office, he instructs Taub, Kutner and 13 to run the tests again, "but, first verify that you are talking to the evil twin, and make sure Cuddy bills her insurance company double."

It's not until House signs in for clinic duty that he catches up with the oncologist. As House turns in scrips to the pharmacy he spies Wilson leaning over the nurse's station. His face is obscured, and all he sees is the back of his head. A young nurse, a mini-Brenda, is pointing to his new tie. "Your birthday?" she mouths, smile widening, but the sunny look falters as House lip-reads, "Seven?" and her head nods up and down seven times as he figures Wilson is reciting each color to her. _Good job, Wilson. Give yourself more rope._

Wilson waves his hands over his head, and House is puzzled for a moment, but catches Wilson's reflection in the glass wall across from the station. He's demonstrating how House prepped the ties for him, and with a little shrug and wave of the bandaged hand, explains how House puts the tie on him. _Yes, oh yessss!_

House checks back to see how the nurse is absorbing the information. A curtain smothers the light in her eyes as her lips form the words "Dr. House??" _Score!!_

Just then the Brenda clone spots the unshaven doctor off to the side, and gives him a brief but hard stare, returning her eyes to Wilson. She flashes him a look of dismissal as she picks up the receiver to make a call.

Meanwhile, the real Nurse Brenda, buried in paperwork and seated at the station, looks up quickly to give Wilson a scathing once over, taking in House as well with her sour expression. Before Brenda's eyes drop back down to the stack of forms, House returns her look with a toothy Cheshire cat grin. _Touchdown!_

Wilson walks away, stroking his tie, happy and clueless.

TBC

**A/N:** Because this chapter is short, chapter 7 _may_ be uploaded in the PM. Thanks for reading!


	7. Frayed Hope

**Lasso His Heart 7/8**

**Summary:** Tuesday – Unhappy!Wilson Happy!House. A 1960's style bromantic comedy. If you need a break from H/W angst . . . drop on by, hang out with the doctors at the cafeteria. The Reuben is the daily special . . .

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Fluff.

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** Please note italicized phrases are House talking to himself. I apologize for the story written in present tense. It went through several permutations and my head was too scrambled to change it back to past tense. The story is completely written, and chapters will be released every few days. Please read and review.

I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, **triedunture** and **bookfan85** deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 7: Frayed Hope**

On Tuesday House notes changes in his patient's status and Wilson's demeanor.

Finally, his patient's test results are consistent with her symptoms, and she is officially boring. His patient is transferred to the correct specialist, but not before strong-arming the woman into promising that her twin will come in for a complete work-up before the end of the week.

The morning began with Wilson waking him by flapping a selection of neckties in his face. The old cacophony of patterned silk appears to be entirely forgotten. It is up to House to choose the best one for today's ensemble. As he navigates the knot into position under Wilson's chin, a nagging moment of déjà vu slips across his mind too quickly to grasp. The dark haired man interrupts his thoughts, "I can't understand how you can have such good taste in clothes, but show so little interest in your own."

Pointing to his latest rock band t-shirt that he's wearing, he dismisses the remark, "With your taste, how can you tell?"

House glances at Wilson's bandage. It looks fresh, but just the same, "Want me to check your hand?"

"No. Maybe not a clothes maven, but trust me - I'm a doctor. I treat radiation burns far worse than this."

Before Wilson's out the door, they agree to meet later for lunch.

HWHWHWHWH

With time on his hands, House tracks his friend's whereabouts and confirms that wherever Wilson goes, he shows off his birthday tie, and talks about his friend's ingenious plan to uncomplicate his life while his hand heals. When he turns his back he never sees the unhappy and disappointed faces in his wake.

Only Foreman raises an eyebrow of approval when he surveys the taupe suit, powder blue shirt and matching tie Wilson sports as he drops by the office, and walks with House to the cafeteria.

The oncologist's brown eyes are serious but his focus distracted when House sits down next to him.

House grabs for Wilson's untouched sandwich, but without thinking, the young man moves the plate out of the way. The reflex rouses Wilson from his reverie, and he mentally shakes off what's on his mind.

A smile momentarily lights up his face as he tenderly unbuttons one button on his shirt and tucks his tie inside, but, hairline creases of tension return. Wilson looks puzzled, worried.

"Why so glum, bro? Something bothering you?"

A slight pause and a clearing of the throat precedes the confession, "A few nurses came to me today and asked for their phone numbers back. One of them was Celia."

Covering his glee with a serious face, "Maybe you're getting old, Wilson. Losing your touch."

House almost feels sorry for Wilson when he hears the quiet reply, "Yeah. Maybe I am."

TBC

**A/N:** Final chapter tomorrow. Come join us lurkers in House's conference room where we can watch House and Wilson on a direct feed into his office. Hush now, don't make too much noise. We don't want them to overhear us. Milk and Oreos for all who attend.


	8. The Top of Mt Rushmore

**Summary:** This is it! The final chapter! After the conclusion, let's all go to the local Starbuck's together and chat. Thank you all for reading and commenting!

Wednesday – House and Wilson face off. Are there explosions or fireworks? A 1960's style bromantic comedy. Why not take a break and join the rest of us in House's conference room while we eavesdrop on the two doctors. Free milk and Oreos for all.

**Rating:** PG17 for a word or two. Fluff.

**Disclaimer:** So not mine, and never will be sigh

**A/N:** I want to thank the reviewers of my other stories. It encouraged me to try a long story this time. My betas, **triedunture** and **bookfan85** deserve a round of applause for their many wonderful suggestions. They are the best, and I don't deserve them. Clapping I'm responsible for all remaining errors.

**Chapter 8:** The Top of Mt. Rushmore

Wednesday begins like any ordinary day.

House once again is in charge of Wilson's sartorial splendor as he selects the royal blue tie to go with Wilson's blue and white striped shirt and dark brown suit before the oncologist goes to work.

Wilson is stumped for the third day in a row that medical and administrative staffers are unfazed by his boyish charm. Even test results and radiology reports aren't arriving in his inbox with the usual rapidity. He hides his puzzlement under his professional demeanor.

It is only a matter of time before Wilson explodes, and House is ready and waiting to pick up the pieces.

As late afternoon deepens the shadows in his office, House looks up in surprise as Wilson, overcoat over arm, and brief case in hand, rockets through his door.

Voice shaking, Wilson launches, "House, I bumped into Debbie in the lobby as I was leaving, and she's upset. Seems she heard that I'm - I'm in a relationship with . . . You!"

It's all over the hospital that the ties you gave me for my birthday are a message to all the women here to lay off me. That I'm your property!"

Wilson is working himself into a fine snit as he paces back and forth in front of House's desk. A slight sheen of sweat pops up on his forehead as he drops his satchel on the chair near the glass wall. He strikes a slightly off-kilter superhero pose due to the injured hand, "And what's more shocking is that you used me to deliver the message! How could you, House?! Just . . . how could you?!"

The wrath of Wilson is an unholy sight, and if House wants to be honest, the blazing brown eyes are setting him on fire. He grabs the desk edge, and shoves the chair he's on under his work area to avoid Wilson's incendiary gaze. He squares his shoulders and bolsters for Wilson's next reaction. House deliberately turns his attention to his monitor before growling, "Someone needs to audit Debbie's books for accuracy. She's wrong. The message isn't only for the women, but all the men and trannys too."

Wilson's hands leave his hips. The right hand massages the back of his neck as he tries to take it all in. He inhales a deep breath and wags his index finger in the direction of the serious man sitting at the desk. "Let me get this straight. You aren't joking? You want everyone to know you're . . . interested in me?"

"Yes"

"And, how does that translate between you and me?"

"In terms that you would understand? Let me frame it like a Hitchcock movie: We take a journey of discovery together. Romantic train rides sometimes end with us eating dust from the road of life, or laughing our asses off from the top of George Washington's head on Mt. Rushmore. I can't offer you guarantees Wilson, because I'm who I am, and you're who you are, but I've thought about this . . ."

"Seriously?"

The safe word. It is now up to House to put up or shut up. House turns and stares directly into Wilson's unbelieving eyes, leaving no doubt regarding his intentions, "I repeat, there are no guarantees where this will lead, but we can stick it out together. Yes, seriously."

"Well!" Wilson pivots toward the office door and back again, releasing the long breath that he was holding, his voice rumbling in a soft purr, "It's about time! This bandage was becoming a nuisance, and I'm tired of acting the clueless idiot."

A knowing smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he drops his brown eyes to focus on the bandage he wore for the last 8 days, and unwinds the last of the snowy white constraints from his hand, tossing it into the trash. He curls his fingers into a fist, and splays them out again. He does this several times. "I am a fast healer, you know. The bandage could have come off days ago."

House stands up and limps around the desk, using it for support instead of his cane until he reaches Wilson, and gently takes hold of the hand, flipping it palm up and palm down until he is assured that any traces of the wretched raw skin are gone.

There's that feeling of déjà vu again. House let's go of Wilson's hand and searches the face before him. "You played me like you played the nurses didn't you? Manipulating me into fitting the ties around your neck?"

Wilson is beaming.

"Have I told you lately, that you are not an idiot?"

"Not lately, no."

The two barely contain their excitement. Both hearts race to the same tempo. Passion blazes like blue lightening from one, colliding with the smoldering embers of the other. The room's temperature rises several degrees from their combined body heat. Neither can take a deep breath.

One whispers, "Not, here." The other nods in agreement, "Not now."

This time when brown eyes meet blue, the communication between them is flawless. Questions answered, feelings shared, and senses sizzle with anticipation.

Eventually, willpower overtakes impulse. Heartbeats slow. Breathing returns to normal.

Wilson touches down to earth first, "How about I pick up some Thai food on the way to your place? Bushy eyebrows wiggle, "To close the deal."

"Appropriate Wilson, but your bubbe's bubbe's matzoh ball soup would be better."

"It takes preparation time, and then there's a long simmering period, if you don't mind . . . waiting?" There's a hopeful wicked light dancing in Wilson's eyes as he looks into the amazing face in front of him.

House's mouth softens into an easy smile, and returns the mischievous expression with one of his own, "We squeezed all the metaphors we can out of 'North by Northwest,' so while we wait for your soup tonight, how about we move on to another Hitchcock classic . . . "

Wilson's voice chimes in with House's. Both are laughing as they speak in unison . . . "Rear Window!"

**Epilogue**

Fireworks explode in the night sky. Rockets roar into space. Trains plunge into tunnels. And, green ties . . . oh, Oh Yesss!

It is the beginning for House and Wilson, but not . . .

The end.

**A/N:** Thank you all for reading. Hope it was as much fun for you as it was for me. And, thanks for all the great comments! I appreciated every last one of them. One more thank you to my beta's, triedunture, and bookfan85.

This is dedicated to my father who appreciated the intricacies of tying a Windsor knot.


End file.
